Wolfgang R.E: Scheerle

Born in Stuttgart,

Lives and works

in Thuringia and Bonn,


Otmar Alt
Harald Reiner Gratz
Bernd Scheid


Galerie FLOX Kirschau
ARTMUC München Oktober
Bilder Galerie Bethge Erfurt
HanseArt Lübeck
3 A Excellence of Art Le Morne / Mauritius
S.T.Art Gallery Moskau
Galerie Grahn Tabarz
Alte Försterei Ilmenau
Kulfturfabrik Langewiesen
CCS Galerei Suhl
Kunsthaus am Markt Schmalkalden
Schloss Wilhelmsburg Schmalkalden

Harald Reiner Gratz on Wolfgang R. E. Scheerle

Wolfgang Scheerle is a phenomenon, driven, as it seems, by an inner compass, a compass which magically leads him into the kingdom of art. This happens at a rapid tempo, breathtakingly and yet, after more exact analysis, logically and inevitably.
WS paints pictures.

He does this so naturally and boldly. He eats breakfast with the big names of art as if it were second nature. He mounts, copies, idealizes and irritates. Three black cats, and out comes a Scheerle!

It brings one pleasure to see this, again and again.
He tries things out, he achieves and leaves, he experiments on subjects where one would say “oh no,” and then, the results are delightful ones which nobody had expected. A buccaneer, one of the friendly kind – humorous, clever and strange; if that word fits, then to him. He foils cultural activities by taking them seriously. He wants to go there. At the same time, he is so free and uninhibited with his products. He unwittingly shuns the mainstream, and the observer is diabolically happy, while thinking, “Who is this person? Lovely!”

He loves paint – it is his medium.

Whether he uses it abstractly, radically, gesticularly, constructively, trendy or informally, it doesn’t matter; it celebrates a delightful resurrection in its purity and innocence again and again. Paint.

WS is on the go, decorating, abstracting, provoking; but one thing he doesn’t do to us, he doesn’t bore us. Thank you for this. And if he is indeed too colorful sometimes, we should remember how many moaners have to tolerate art, how many alarmists and gurus of the spirit of time there are. In this case, an imposter of the senses, with his wonderfully free spirit should indeed be the right one to show us that in the end, many paths lead to Rome. In this sense and in this way, with a colorful hat and painting/walking stick, cell phone and GPS, arrive where you would like, you incredible, timeless man, and give us a picture of your experience – wherever you may find it. God bless!


The Penguin

No, he didn’t feel well at all. Where were the endless fields of snow, the masses of relatives, the chatter and swagger, the shoving and never-ending swimming matches in the ice cold ocean water of his home; where was all of that, which meant life to him? It didn’t exist for him anymore. It was simply gone.

Yes, he was fed, several times a day, even if the fish wasn’t always fresh, still nevertheless. And of course there were still the few relatives who swam around lackluster in the concrete basin. There was also enough chatter, however, behind all of that which he saw, was a fence. A chain link fence. You could see through it. It even let a lot of air through, you could say. But it was a fence, and he was a prisoner. If only he could fly. But he couldn’t. He could waddle and swim and…but he could see, and could observe. Here. At the zoo. The children, the grown-ups, all of those who curiously looked over the fence. All of those who laughed, some of them funny, some of them malicious, because he and his people were the way they were, because they waddled, and sometimes rolled around; because their feathers looked like a tailcoat. Yes, yes, everything was very funny. But there he was again – this man with the curious eyes, the one who always did such strange things.

Of course, these bolts of lightning from the boxes that the people held in their hands, he knew these already. Oh and how they were happy when they looked inside. Pictures, they said.
The man also did this sometimes too, but he also did other things.
He had a book and a pen, and he drew around in the book, completely concentrated, and time and again he looked at him, him the prisoner, who was so funny, haha. What was the man there doing? What was the meaning? Did he want to reinvent him, him, the penguin, taken from the world, protected, imprisoned, for the sake of the happiness of the people, and above all, for their good conscience? Reinvent – in order to draw funny little pictures of him. Was there actually money for that, for which the people would do almost anything for?

Now he’d had enough. “I’m going swimming,” he thought. He should very well do this, this which he wants. I would so love to see the world – my own world, and I see the visitors behind the chain link fence, thanks a lot and waddle and jump and plunge!

“Look, he’s swimming again,” thought the drawer. “It’s enough for today.” He thought of Paris, of New York, of Berlin, of all the places where he would send the penguins – his penguins; alone, in pairs, in masses. He loved these companions, and he didn’t know why. But he didn’t have to. The important thing was, that that was the way it was. He loved drawing them. For him, it was a natural act. As easy as love, when it is young. Sometimes he felt related to these little fellas, sometimes in his daydreams or when he was drawing, he almost had the feeling that they would be he himself – alone and sad, and then happy again, almost excluded. And he didn’t want to be all caged up, not sitting behind this chain link fence and from time to time swim in this horrible concrete basin. No. No way. He wanted to see the world, to taste it, to smell it, to feel it. His penguins could not do this.

Not in the so-called real world: however, there was another reality, perhaps even more real than the fence. There were pictures, there was imagination. And in his pictures there would be a hero – this little penguin, free and proud, small and vulnerable, uppity and a dreamer. He would travel through the metropolises of this world from Moscow to Shanghai, and he would be free. Free, just as neither the penguin in this zoo, nor Wolfgang Scheerle ever would be in his human skin. But neither of them would care, because in the magical land of imagination they were allies – friends on the path through the magical land of painting. And this was good, for the both of them.